Kash Baloch — Poetry on Identity, Love, and Survival

When I was a gasoline-soaked rag, that you threatened to ignite, whenever you erupt, that was when I prayed I'd learn to fly, so I could just runaway and take off towards the skies.  Leaving you behind became a fantasy that seeped into my daydreams, before possessing all of me. The taste of freedom so sweet and thick upon my tongue, like honey, it was sugary as it was warm and golden.  Some days I could almost reach out and grab the reins, and regain control of my life, even if it were just for a day.  Picture it—my own routine, a job, and my own home, where I could be the me I was always meant to be.  Instead, I'm a shadow of the future I was supposed to know as an adult; the failing sum of all the broken parts of you and I from prior battlegrounds. I remember a time when I believed that I could be somebody too, that I could rise to the occasion, and achieve success like everyone else. But I've resigned to this war, this slithering that's seized and besieged me; oh,...

Losing my mind was like swallowing hot coals—it stole the words from off my tongue. A treason like no other, even though we anticipate that it will burn. Embers lit up my mouth from the inside, like walls of a cavern lit entirely by torch.  When my brain malfunctioned, my grasp on reality suddenly became loose. Unraveling like serotonin silly string until all that remained was one big knot. As my sanity escapes, all that was left is a pile on the floor of mess.  I lose track of time as I obsess about an idea that evolves into branches that make up a nest. Twigs of delusion turn into entire trees when subjected to neglect. Dopamine twice a day does nothing to improve my self-respect. I search the seafloor for something familiar to swim alongside with, making my way upstream until I can tell fish apart from their tailfins. Saved crocodile tears in a sandcastle—oysters reveal pearls of oxytocin alabaster. It is finding yourself in quicksand sinking faster than a s...

The day she learned to talk, her mother cautioned her to listen. Moments after her first steps, mama showed her how to run. Preparing young Sylvie for the inevitable day,  when she caught the attention of a man who refused to go away. Sylvie knew all about the monsters under the bed, she was well-versed on the boogeyman, who filled her with dread. She could describe the Wolf-man, Dracula, and even Frankenstein, but her mother warned her the wickedest creature of all was mankind. She said, “This world was not built for us, we are merely trespassers here.” Determined to protect her daughter from the same predatory men she feared. Why do we teach young girls to keep themselves safe, without teaching little boys not to hurt or maim? We desire to build our daughters up to believe they can do anything, to raise them to be confident, and devoid of suffering.  But what good is it when society just shoots them down, laughing at them for thinking it were any diffe...